


I may not live to see our glory

by Klemow



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Canonical Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-07
Updated: 2017-02-07
Packaged: 2018-09-22 15:58:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9615113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Klemow/pseuds/Klemow
Summary: John Laurens death during the Battle of the Combahee River.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So basically I had to write a creative response for english based on a short story of some book. Instead of writing something on one of the short stories I just wrote a John laurens fanfic about him dying and stuff. A person who has researched laurens more could tell me that this is completely inaccurate, I did like 2 mins research into this, and it's my first fanfic, enjoy.

It was early morning, not early enough for the sun to be visible on any horizon, but light enough for the birds to start their songs which screamed undisturbed into the air. I was still half asleep unaware of my surroundings, perhaps it was that I didn’t shut my eyes that night and I had grown delirious from the lack of a vitality. But the low ceiling that normally greeted my head never kissed the top of my brow that I was so accustomed to over the past 5 years. The rustling of the others didn’t welcome my ears and bless me “good morning”. Although through lack of sleep, it was the one morning where I was most awake. Awake to my place in the hearts of others.  
Cannons and chiming church bells of victory still ringed in my ears, although they felt more as a distant memory. A story told by my grandfather about a war that ended the year I was brought into this world, and not something that I had personally experienced and fought in.  
The sun rose in its slow fashion as it always did during summer in the southern states, bugs of the night hiding away before the birds of the day came to slaughter their populations which never faltered or seemed to diminish in size. How if only we were like those bugs, that the war would have been won much sooner. Brandywine, Germantown, Monmouth, Yorktown, all battlefields I had seen, that I had become injured on. But now the muskets, bayonets, and cannons seemed all too far, and yet too close simultaneously. Just like the scars that never left my skin, and the ones that left no marks. Fighting for something that could never be won through war.  
A close friend, close enough to almost seem family and in a sense we were a part of one of unrelated blood, once noted to a shared mutual “It was not his fault that he was not killed or wounded, he did everything that was necessary to produce one of the other” I uncovered these words through a means I don’t remember. At one point I was able to discern those words as worry-some toned, but now they cut as a sword reminding me of the times I was considered a lucky one, and that I was able to return home. Although I am camped in my home state currently, I long for where my family shaped by choice instead of blood remains, miles away from me.  
The men gather and we march onward towards the British soldiers, said to be occupying this area. So close to just returning home, seeing my brothers and sisters again, one last time. I spent so long away from them during my college years. And although I don’t want them to, sour memories flood back from where I had kept them back in forgotten memory. My wife, my child I never saw. It was just a stupid mistake, it was once and fate handed me something I never wished for in any dream. It was an effort to prove to myself, to tell myself that I was normal. And it ended in a marriage with her five months pregnant. It wasn’t love that made me, it was honor, for her and her unborn child. To preserve their honor without becoming branded a whore or illegitimate. How it was when the person who became the closest most dearest to my heart found out and asked me to find a wife for him, and how when he did find one his sentiments for me continually faded, his heart not big enough for two. Certainly his wife could grant more than I ever could to him, my resentment gets the better of me.  
The men up ahead begin to start shouting. Bullet shots fired from muskets erupt into the air. The British soldiers. Bayonets clash with themselves, and with skin producing sashes of scarlet to open up and bleed into the white shirts and blue jackets. Black and white continentals scatter in the chaos of the surprise attack. While I sit there on the back of my horse which has carried me across South Carolina, none of it seeming real and instead just a mind image of a book read sometime during childhood.  
Bodies lay upon the dirt of the earth, red gashes marking all of them, some moving, others still as though they sleep like they did earlier in their tents. Another memory conjured up from the depths of my mind. Long before in a time I scarcely remembered. When I studied in Europe along with my younger brother. When I was more passionate about the natural sciences of this world, when I wanted to be able to help the people who lay bleeding out around the feet of my horse. When my youngest brother died under my care. How I was unable to do anything, how I’m still unable to do anything.  
A bullet hits my horse out from under me, while another less than a second strikes my torso. The falling sensation is the realest thing I’ve felt that entire day. The ground rushes up harder than the bullet that hit me did.  
My vision grows blurry, I’m aware that this is my last moment. I bade one last farewell to the most dearest of my heart and closest consort, that he will never hear.  
“Adieu, my dear friend; while circumstances place so great a distance between us, I entreat you not to withdraw the consolation of your letters. You know the unalterable sentiments of your affectionate –“  
My last breath is cut short from the growing pain in my chest and the deepening redness. How fitting it is to die for ones country.


End file.
